The hall looked much livelier when night fell. The grey stone had been painted over by the yellow glow of countless candles. The lack of adornments was compensated by the flickering shadows that danced across the walls, moving with the uneven candlelight. In the corner, a troupe played a strange but lively tune that wove through the murmurs of the many guests.
"Sir Jeremus knew the sword like the back of his hand. He was one of my best knights… two decades ago, that is. He was already half-dead when he chose to ride with me to Thornston. I've never seen a death so miserable," the Marquis narrated, half-drunk and oddly jovial given the grimness of the story.
"What happened to him, my lord?" I asked without much thought. The more we interacted with the Marquis, the more we realized that, crude and blunt as he was, he could be surprisingly approachable.
